


Gladstone

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, pet death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:38:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gladstone in SH2 is not the same dog as the Gladstone in SH1; here's one possible explanation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gladstone

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in a while that wasn't written for a prompt, but I had personal reasons for needing to write this.
> 
> Timeline-wise this occurs between movies one and two.

"Watson. Your dog is defective."

Watson sighed and rolled his eyes as he closed the sitting room door behind him. Of course Holmes would greet him thus as he returned from a week's absence. "I thought Gladstone was our dog," he said, glancing at the animal lying before the fire as he removed his overcoat, scarf, and hat. "How is he defective?"

"He is even lazier than usual, and he hasn't eaten a single thing I've given him."

"Perhaps he has finally learned not to trust anything you try to feed him."

Holmes scoffed, plucking idly at his violin as Watson knelt beside the abnormally still dog.

Watson felt for Gladstone's pulse but didn't find it, then realized he wasn't breathing either. His fur was cool to the touch despite his proximity to the fire. "Holmes, he's not defective, he's dead."

"Dead?" Holmes repeated, starting up from his armchair and bending over Watson to see for himself. "But he was whining at me not half an hour ago."

"That may be, but he's dead now."

"I didn't do it," Holmes said immediately, frantically, backing away.

"I didn't say you did," Watson said reasonably, feeling a numbness creep over him. He fell silent as he stroked the motionless animal.

Holmes sat on the floor a short distance away, staring at Gladstone and Watson's hand moving over his short fur. "I'm sorry, Watson," Holmes said quietly.

Watson nodded, still petting Gladstone. "I knew he was getting old. I should have expected this. I shouldn't have left him," he said slowly.

"You couldn't have anticipated this. He seemed quite his usual self when you dropped him off."

Watson shook his head. "There were little things . . . I didn't put them together. I should have. I should have known."

"You could not have known," Holmes said firmly.

Watson did not try to contradict him again, but continued tracing his fingers over Gladstone's face, rubbing beneath his chin and behind his ears, and smoothing the fur of his side.

At length he removed his hand from the chilly fur and simply stared at the face that had won him over at first glance all those years ago. "He was the first friend I had in London," he mused aloud.

Holmes squeezed his shoulder companionably. "I know, old boy."

"Animals weren't allowed in the hotel, so I smuggled him in and out in my Gladstone medical bag. He was smaller then," Watson said with a choked laugh. He heaved a sigh and dragged a hand across his face. A handkerchief appeared from over his shoulder and he took it though he had no real need of it.

"Where would you like to bury him?" Holmes asked when Watson had composed himself somewhat.

That hadn't even crossed his mind. "I don't know," he said, his shoulders slumping. "Do you think we could get away with burying him in the park?"

"Of course we can," Holmes said cheerily. "We'll just have to wait until after dark."

Watson shook his head ruefully. "Do we have a box or something to put him in?"

"I will take care of it," Holmes said quickly.

Watson turned to look at him. "Should I trust you with this?"

"Even I would not desecrate the dead," Holmes said, offended.

There was a sharp rap at the door, which then opened to admit Mrs. Hudson bearing a tea tray. She sighed as she set the tray down. "Now what have you done?" she demanded.

"Nature is the culprit this time," Watson replied before Holmes could say something spiteful. "His age finally caught up with him."

"No doubt hurried along by those infernal experiments," she sniffed as she turned to leave.

Holmes bared his teeth and glared until the door closed behind her. When they were alone again, Holmes crawled away from Watson and rummaged around in a pile, returning with a piece of a blanket which he carefully laid over Gladstone. He stood and held a hand out toward Watson. "Come, Watson, you need some tea."

Watson needed Holmes' help to stand, his leg stiff from sitting on the floor so long, and did not resist when Holmes pushed him into the armchair that did not face the fireplace. He was handed a cup of tea, then Holmes disappeared into his piles of detritus, muttering to himself. Watson mechanically sipped from the cup, spilling a few times when startled by loud crashing noises from elsewhere in the room.

He was on his third cup when Holmes finally dropped himself into the other armchair and took the other cup and poured himself some of the tepid tea. Holmes studied him for a moment, then asked off-handedly about his trip and the conference he'd attended.

Watson took a deep breath--this was something he could talk about--and briefly told him. Holmes pestered him with questions until he had exhausted all details about the events and the people; by then, it was time for dinner.

In similar fashion, Holmes kept Watson distracted through the meal and until dusk had deepened into night outside their windows. "Well, then," Holmes said, turning away from his post by the window. "Shall we?"

"Yes," Watson said hesitantly.

While he donned his coat and hat, Holmes shouldered a burlap sack.

"You put him in a sack?" Watson asked incredulously as they proceeded down the stairs.

"I wrapped him in a blanket, then I put him in a sack along with a small shovel," Holmes corrected, holding the front door open for Watson. "I thought a sack would be less noticeable than a crate or box."

"You're probably right," Watson conceded.

"Did you wish to carry him?"

Watson eyed the lumpy sack and tried to suppress his shudder. "I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Holmes assured him, and they strolled toward Regent's Park.

It was nearly deserted, so it wasn't difficult to find a secluded area. Watson picked a spot at the base of some shrubbery; Holmes carefully set the sack down and pulled out the shovel. "I'll do it," Watson said, exchanging cane for shovel.

"As you wish," Holmes said, stepping back and lighting his pipe, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stood guard while Watson dug.

No words passed between them until Watson paused in his task. "Is that deep enough, do you think?"

Holmes peered over his shoulder. "Yes, that should suffice."

"Would you . . . ?"

Holmes carefully lifted the sack and, kneeling beside Watson, set it into the hole. They stared at it for a few still minutes, then Holmes took the shovel and began covering the sack with dirt. "I will miss him," he commented.

Watson snorted. "You mean you will miss experimenting on him."

"That too," Holmes admitted easily, leaning forward to pat the soil back into something resembling its original condition.

Watson took back his cane and slowly got to his feet. Holmes silently followed his lead. They ambled out of the park and back toward Baker Street.

When Watson hesitated at the front door, Holmes said, "You have the use of my bed if you wish to stay the night."

"I really shouldn't," Watson said, but he went inside anyway.

 

Watson returned to his new home the next morning, and at almost every turn he was confronted with something that reminded him of Gladstone: his water bowl in the kitchen, the pillow he liked to sleep on in the sitting room, the worn rope toy that he used to drag around the house, and fur on every bit of fabric between the floor and knee height. Mary had begun moving her belongings into the house, but he was the only living soul in it and his usual routine was turned on its head now that he didn't have to take Gladstone on his walks, brief though they were. He began to dread going home to the empty house, and found his steps turning to Baker Street with some regularity.

Holmes accepted his presence without comment, acknowledging him and then appearing to continue with whatever he had been doing once Watson was settled with brandy or tea and the paper. On the occasions that Holmes was preparing to go out when Watson arrived, Holmes invited him along; they invariably ended up eating out or taking a walk in the park--pausing for a while by a certain bit of shrubbery--or attending a concert.

It was on one of these days that they were passing an alley on the way to the park and heard a whimper. Naturally, they stopped to investigate.

Holmes ventured in first, following the whining sound to a barrel wedged against the wall. He peered in, then chuckled. "Watson, look!"

Watson looked. "It's . . . a dog," he said dumbly.

"Not just any dog. A bulldog," Holmes said, tipping the barrel onto its side so the dog could poke its nose out and sniff them warily.

Watson crouched down and held out a hand to the dog, which approached him readily after catching his scent. "He's woefully underfed," Watson said, running his hands along the dog's flanks. "He has a wound on his rear leg, but it's not yet infected. If that's all that's wrong with him, he should respond well to decent care."

"What will you call him?" Holmes asked with amusement.

"What? No, I can't keep him," Watson said even as he gathered the animal to his chest and stood up.

"No?"

"No," he repeated firmly. "I will tend his leg and feed him up a bit and find him a good home once he looks presentable."

"Of course," Holmes said dryly. "Would you like to bet on that?"

"No."

"I give it a week or less," Holmes said, grinning that infuriating smile. Watson wished he could deck him, but he had his arms full of whimpering dog.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a patient to tend to," Watson said archly and walked away.

 

Watson really didn't think he should keep the dog. He was more than happy to care for it, tend its wound, give it a bath (several baths), feed it until it stopped looking up at him so pitifully, but his grief for Gladstone was only two weeks old and he wasn't ready for a different dog. He would find another dog eventually, just not yet.

This dog was exceedingly anxious, likely the result of being dumped in that alley. If Watson left the room while he was eating, he would stop eating and follow. Wherever Watson went in the house, the dog followed. When Watson had to leave, the dog sat at the door and whimpered; he was still at the door when Watson returned, though whether he'd stayed there the entire time Watson couldn't say.

He decided to take the dog to a nearby veterinarian for a more thorough examination, just to be sure, and had the opportunity to do so three days after rescuing him from the alley. The vet was more than happy to take a look, and gave the dog a clean bill of health. "If you aren't planning to keep him, I'm sure I could find someone willing to take him in."

The dog looked up at Watson and Watson hesitated. He scratched the dog's head as he warred with himself.

"I'm keeping him," he said, feeling his heart lift as the words left his mouth.

The dog opened his mouth in something resembling a grin and wagged his stumpy tail.

 

Holmes stopped by two days later. "He's settling in quite nicely," he observed, smirking as he noted the collar around the bulldog's neck. "What are you calling him?"

"Gladstone," Watson admitted with a blush.

"He does look quite similar," Holmes said, crouching down to pet the dog sniffing curiously at his trousers.

"You won't be experimenting on him," Watson warned.

Holmes grinned around the stem of his pipe. "We'll see about that."


End file.
